


Ficlets

by thefairfleming



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, F/M, Ficlet, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 10,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fics from different Comment Memes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silk

Comment: _Jon and Sansa travel to the Free Cities and, much to Jon's chagrin, Sansa immediately takes to the flimsy summer gowns._

Jon doesn't like Lys. He doesn't like the pleasure houses that seem to be on every bloody corner, or the fact that you can't walk to the market without hearing breathy moans and guttural cries coming from somewhere. He doesn't like the fair-haired youths with their sleepy blue eyes. He doesn't like the heat, but then nor does he care for the perfumed breezes and the way they seem to caress every inch of uncovered skin.

And he hates- no, he loathes their style of dress.

He wishes Sansa felt the same.

But as it is, she is currently reclining on a low sofa on the terrace, Lyseni silks wrapped around her. The dress- if such a flimsy garment can be called a dress- is of the palest blue silk, and it somehow makes her hair brighter and her skin creamier and her eyes...

She turns those eyes on him now, her lips lifting in a bright smile. "I bought a new one," she tells him. "I hope you're not cross."

This is the third dress she's bought in as many days. The one before this was a dusky charcoal that made her shine like a pearl. And the first one, that had been a deep pink that made him think of all sorts of things that were less than brotherly. But this one is so pale he can the shape of her nipples and when she shifts her thighs...Gods. 

"You are cross," she says, sitting up and frowning. 

"I'm not," he immediately replies. They have the money and Jon cannot bring himself to begrudge Sansa anything that brings her joy. She can buy hundreds of dresses, thousands, if only she'll keep smiling. 

It's not her fault he cannot control his thoughts. That's nothing but his own weakness. He would do well to remember that. 

"You may buy all the dresses you like," Jon says, wanting to go to her. Wanting to lay a hand against her cheek to reassure her. But putting a hand to her cheek would only make him want to pull her face to his. And then that hand would slide down to the curve of her breast, to that shadowy place between her legs. Jon is struck by an image of pale blue silk wafting over his head as he kneels on the terrace before her, kissing her there over and over again until she is all he can taste, until her dress lies in a puddle on that sofa.

It's no wonder his voice sounds slightly strangled when he says, "The dresses of the Lyseni suit you, but...perhaps it is time we left Lys."

Sansa turns her gaze back to the city, so Jon does not see her lips curve in an altogether different smile.

"Oh, I don't think so," she replies, tugging the hem of her dress up her thigh just a little bit. "Not quite yet."


	2. Things Better Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Alys, after the events of "Winter's Lady." Awkwardness ensues.

Comment: _Tell me about how awkward it is after all the banner calling for Jon to see Alys now that she's married, and how he can't stop thinking of all the things he wants to do to her (and sometimes does do to her in some larder or cupboard somewhere all fast and dirty in case they get caught)._

She is another man's wife now. 

 

Jon tells himself that when he sees Alys moving across the yard, her skinny body covered in a black cloak that is too big for her. Skinny, yes, but he can still feel the way her small breast curved into his palm that night before her wedding. He thinks about that night much more than he should, namely how sweet it had been to hold her, taste her, and how that night had seemed endless and yet over in a heartbeat. 

It's a foolish thought, the kind he should be long past, and he tries to shove it away. But then she looks up and her eyes meet his. He wonders if she is thinking of it, too.

***

He can't hear her laugh without getting hard. This is something of a problem since Alys laughs often, usually at Edd. She had laughed that night, too, lying there in his bed, warm and rosy-cheeked. _( "Oh, Jon Snow," she sighs, cupping his cheek in her hand as he lifts his face from between her legs. Her expression is dreamy and rueful all at once, her laugh a wry thing. "However did you and I end up like this?" And then he laughs as well, because truly, she has a point.)_

He would like to make her laugh again. He would also like to taste her again, just once more. He had forgotten the heady thrill of making a woman pant and beg beneath him, the fierce need that welled up as she clutched and pulled at his hair. 

He'd thought of it often, alone there in his chambers, but it had always been of Ygritte, and those memories were as poisoned as all his others. Thinking of Alys, who is right there, who has slept in this bed next to him, who sometimes gives him shy smiles when their paths cross...well, it's a very different thing altogether.

Over dinner one night, one of Jon's men simply makes a comment about how pleasant it is to watch Alys walk away. Sigorn's punch takes out half the man's teeth and effectively breaks up dinner. Jon sends to boy off to be tended to, and later invites Sigorn to his chambers for a mug of ale. He suggests that it may be time for Sigorn and Alys to leave, offering them one of the holdfasts in the Gift. Sigorn hates to agree with him, Jon can tell, but in the end, he sighs and nods. "It is time we left this place. It seems like you are the only man here not fucking my wife with your eyes."

Jon takes a long swallow of his ale. In fact, he had been looking at pelt by the hearth, remembering Alys's hips under his hands, her cunt under his mouth. But either Sigorn can not read people very well, or Jon has grown better at schooling his emotions, because the man makes no comment. 

Later that night, he lies in his bed and all he can think of is Alys moving beneath him _( His breeches and her shift are between them, but he can still feel the heat of her as he moves his hips. "Is this what it will feel like?" she asks, breathless. "No," he manages to choke out. "It will feel much, much better." She gives another one of those laughs. "Don't see how that's possible," she gasps and he chuckles against the damp hair of her temple. )_

***

She catches him as he makes his way through the kitchens. It's dangerous. Anyone could have seen them, but she is quick and he somehow knows it's her the second her hand lands on his arm, so they are in the cupboard before anyone even notices the Lord Commander had walked into the kitchen. 

"You're sending me away," Alys whispers, her eyes large in the gloom. 

"With your husband," he reminds her, but his hand is already on her hip. "And...Gods, Alys, have you been waiting in this cupboard all morning? You're freezing."

"Not that long," she says, pulling his other hand to her breast. "But you usually come in here before now."

"How-,"

"Do you think I haven't watched you as you've watched me?" her hands are like ice as they cup his face. "I am aware of where you are every second of every day."

He wants to say that he has not felt her presence like a tangible thing every day since she wed Sigorn, but that would be a lie. And he has no time for those now. 

When she leans forward and kisses him, pushes her tongue past his lips, all he can do is kiss her back. The kiss is a hot, messy thing, a slide of lips and tongues and teeth, both of them trying not to gasp. It's a simple matter of lifting her skirt and undoing his laces, and then he's finally inside her. 

It's over quickly, both of them knowing how little time they have, what risks they're taking. When he feels her clutch and convulse around him, Jon's own release hits him so hard he nearly sees stars. 

"Oh," she whispers in his ear, her breath warm. "Oh, that _was_ much better."

And then he can only bury his face in her collarbone as he tries not to laugh.


	3. We Three

Comment: _Dany/Jon/Sansa, The Dragons protect what is theirs._

 _This is wrong_ some part of Sansa still whispers every time, but the voice is getting fainter. And when Jon's lips are on her neck and Daenerys's hand is stroking her inner thigh, she can hardly hear the voice at all. 

She knows the palace whispers about her, but they've whispered before, and the darting glances, the conversations behind hands can't hurt her now. Besides, all that they're saying is true. 

"Does it bother you?" Jon asks her one night. They both lie on their stomachs, sweat drying on their skin, and Jon's fingers trace a path up and down her spine. 

"To be gossiped about?" she asks, resting her cheek on folded arms.

He nods, his dark eyes troubled. Jon would spare her any pain, she knows, and to think he might be causing it...

She reaches out, pushes a curl from his forehead. "No, silly boy, it does not bother me. And besides, those that talk only do so because they are jealous."

A pair of cool lips touch her shoulder and Sansa smiles, pressing back into Dany's touch. 

"If any of their talk bothers you, I'll cut their tongues out and feed them to Drogon."

Reaching up, Sansa tangles a hand in the queen's hair, twisting over her shoulder for a kiss. "That will not be necessary," she says when they part. "Although I appreciate the offer."

Dany nuzzles her throat and Jon wraps an arm tighter around her waist, and Sansa wonders that there was ever a time when she didn't feel safe. When she didn't feel completely loved.

"My dragons," she murmurs, twining arms and legs around them the way they have both twined around her heart.


	4. Bedroom Hymns

Comment: _Jon/Sansa, when they are in public, Sansa likes to tell her lord husband how much she wants his mouth on her._

Sansa knows that it's a wife's duty to make her husband's lot in life easier; to soothe his troubles, and make sure his day runs smoothly. And she has always planned on being such a good, dutiful wife. Yet there is something about Jon that brings out a heretofore undiscovered wicked streak in her. 

The first time had been at the dinner with the Umbers. At least then she had had the excuse of being slightly drunk. 

Jon had leaned in, asking if she wanted more wine. Sansa moved closer and heard her own voice reply, "Actually, what I would like is your mouth between my legs."

His response had been immediate and very gratfying. Wine sloshed from the pitcher onto the table, and his eyes had gone very dark and very hot. _"Gods,"_ he'd whispered, and Sansa had dropped a hand beneath the table, resting it on his thigh. He'd stopped her before she'd gone any further, but the tightness of his jaw and the way his thumb had rubbed against her palm promised that she would pay for that transgression later.

And pay she had, writhing beneath his mouth, calling out truly filthy things until she had sobbed and shattered and come thoroughly undone.

She is dwelling on this memory as she and Jon stand in the yard, supervising the construction of a new gate. When Jon asks Sansa her opinion, perhaps it is that memory that makes her answers as she does.

"To be honest, my lord," she murmurs, stepping to his side, "I did not hear your question. I was watching your lips and imagining them on my cunt."

She can actually see his throat work, watch his eyes darken as his grip on her elbow become painfully tight, and it sends a thrill through her. "Sansa," he warns.

"You have only yourself to blame," she tells him lightly, enjoying the way a muscle twitches in his jaw. To anyone watching, she could be offering nothing more than observations on the building.

"If you weren't so dreadfully good at it, I wouldn't go thinking about it day and night. Why, just the other afternoon in my solar, I dropped at least a dozen stitches thinking about that night in the godswood."

Honestly, that night had been both lovely and incredibly wicked. He hadn't even removed her dress, merely backed her against a tree, fallen to his knees, and ravished her with his mouth. In the end, only her high-pitched pleas _(Gods, Jon, enough, enough, I can't bear it)_ had made him stop. Granted, she'd been pleading for him to do it all over again only a few moments later...

"The silk in my chair shall have to be replaced, I grew so wet from thinking of it," she tells him, and now she is fairly sure he's trembling slightly. 

At her side, so many people watching, Jon does a fair job of keeping his voice steady when he says, "The gate is coming along nicely. I'm very pleased." 

His eyes are dark and hot when he turns to her. "Are you, my lady wife?"

Sansa lets her gaze linger on his mouth for just a beat too long. "No," she finally says. "But I trust I shall be shortly."


	5. Hidden in Plain Sight

Comment: _Jon/Sansa, Stark of your choice (Arya, Robb, Catelyn, Ned, whoever) - He/she didn't even think Jon and Sansa like each other._

All Arya wanted was an apple. They were out in the kitchen, and one of the new kitchen maids said she thought there was a barrel down in the cellar. 

The torches lining the wall were already lit as she headed down the stairs, but she didn't think much on that. After all, Sansa had said at breakfast that she planned on taking inventory sometime this afternoon. She was probably already down there with her parchments, taking note of how many onions they had, how many potatoes, before handing them off to Jon's steward for the actual calculations of how long their rations would last. 

All in all, it seemed like dreadfully boring work to Arya, and she was actually feeling a bit sorry for her sister as she stepped quietly onto the packed dirt floor.

Then she heard the moan. Arya froze, ears straining. Was Sansa hurt? Sick? Or had she just realized how dull and pointless her work down here was?

The thought made Arya smirk a bit and she crept forward. 

But Sansa was not sick. Or hurt. 

Or bored.

The smirk fell from Arya's face as she took in the sight of her ever-so-proper sister leaning against one of the cellar walls, her head tipped back, her skirts around her hips, and a man kneeling between her legs.

Sansa had one knee thrown over the man's shoulder, and her silk slipper was was laying carelessly on the floor. For some reason, that was the bit that truly shocked Arya. That beautiful pale pink shoe, Sansa's favorite, covered in cellar dust and her sister's foot, clad only in her stocking, moving up and down the man's back. 

And then Arya realized that the black hair Sansa was clutching seemed very familiar and...oh. _Oh._ No, the shoe was not the most shocking part of this. Not at all.

 _They don't even like each other_ Arya thought, even as she acknowledged how absurd that thought was. Jon was kneeling on the cellar floor, kissing Sansa...kissing her there. 

Sansa moaned again, and Arya felt her heart beating everywhere. In her chest, in her throat, between her legs. What would such a thing even feel like?

"Jon," Sansa gasped, and Arya could see her fingers convulsing in Jon's hair. "Oh. _Oh._ Oh, Gods, ohhhhh...,"

Sansa shook, and Arya heard Jon groan. Her sister's head fell forward, auburn hair obscuring her face as her fingers slid down to cup his face. Her shoulders were shaking, and for a moment, Arya thought Sansa was weeping. 

But no, she was...laughing. And so was Jon. 

"That was very, _very_ wicked," Sansa whispered, her voice slightly hoarse.

"Counting vegetables is dull work," Arya heard Jon reply. He sounded as though he has just run a race. "I thought you could use a distraction."

Sansa laughed again, high and pure, and then she fell to her knees, twining her arms around Jon's neck, apparently not caring about the dirt on her gown. She kissed him, and Arya's heart thudded again as she thought about how Sansa must be able to taste herself on his lips. But, if the way she was devouring Jon's mouth was any clue, Sansa did not seem to care about that either.

As Jon let her weight carry him down to the cellar floor, Arya turned away, silent, and walked back up the stairs.

Apples could wait, she decided as she made her way toward the forge. She needed to find Gendry. Now.


	6. In My Blood

Comment: _Jon/Sansa, "Or maybe he'll give me yours." A different brother fulfills Sansa's threat, but she sits on a throne with Lannister blood on her dress regardless._

The blood is still wet on her dress when she finds him.

She wishes it were still wet on his hands, and a part of her is horrified by that thought. But Sansa has come too far, done too much, to shy away from such things now.

He doesn't look even the littlest bit puzzled when she bursts into his chambers, and she is so thankful for that. 

And he doesn't make her tell him why she has come. In fact, when she rushes into his arms, already tugging at the laces of his breeches, he kisses her as though he'd expected her. And perhaps he had. Perhaps he had seen the look in her eyes when he had placed Joffrey's head at her feet, murmuring, "Your Grace," in a hoarse whisper that had set her blood alight. 

Sansa had thought so often. And the ones she'd depended on had all failed her in the end. How odd that it should be Jon Snow who would make good on her threat to Joffrey so long ago.

As she drags Jon to the stone floor, she thinks again of how he'd looked in the throne room, streaked with blood and sweat and all of it for her. Then Jon reaches beneath her smallclothes where she is already wet and hot and ready for him, and she thrusts her hips up into his touch with a thin, shaky cry. 

"Gods," he hisses against her neck, his mouth warm. 

She wants to tell him so much. She wants to use filthy words that should never pass a lady's lips. She wants to thank him. She wants to tell him how it made her feel, seeing him there with Joff's gold hair clutched in one black glove. But this doesn't feel like the time for words, and so she shows him with her body, with the roll of her hips, her tongue in his mouth, her fingers digging into his back.

It does not take long for either of them. Sansa is shaking and coming apart by his third thrust, and he follows only a heartbeat later, his hand clutching her hair so hard that it hurts. But she welcomes it, just as she welcomes the weight of his body pressing her to the stones, the salt of his sweat on her lips.

They come back to themselves slowly, and Sansa thinks of how many people would be shocked to see their queen thus, half-dressed and sprawled beneath the man she'd once called brother.

Then she glances down, sees the bright red splatter of Joffrey's blood on the hem of her gown, and decides she does not care


	7. Come Apart, Undone

Comment: _Jon/Sansa - The first time he calls the banners._

How this even started, she has no idea. 

A nightmare, one of the many that have plagued her, no matter how many leagues she puts between her and the Vale, no matter how often she tells herself that she is home and safe. 

Jon was there as he had been for every nightmare since she returned to Winterfell. She thinks sometimes that he must not sleep, that he lies awake just in case she cries out. The thought always fills her with a little tenderness and even more guilt. All those years calling him "half-brother," "bastard," never knowing how kind his heart was, how gentle his hands.

He had sat on the edge of her bed, holding her, and there had been nothing new in that. Nor was it unusual for him to press his lips to her temple, murmuring her name and the occasional endearment. 

Everything, just as it always was. Until he went to kiss her cheek and Sansa lifted her chin, touching her mouth to his. 

He froze for the barest moment. And then the sound he made...gods, she would never forget it. Desire, despair, need, all of it rising up from his chest, and she swore she could feel it vibrating in her own blood. 

His lips had moved over hers, his tongue sliding inside her mouth until Sansa felt so dizzy the only thing she could do was lie back on the bed. 

Jon's mouth, hot and needy, had moved from her lips to her throat, suckling at her nipples through her nightdress until she'd thought she'd go mad. And then he'd kissed the soft swell of her belly, and now...

He kisses her through the linen of her gown, but it is still too much. Sansa reaches down and grasps his hair, closes her knees as much as she can with his shoulders between them. "This...we cannot...it's not...," is all she can gasp.

In the darkness, his eyes seem to glitter. "Shh, sweet girl," he murmurs, and she can feel his breath there, and oh, her knees are falling open all on their own.

His lips press the gentlest kiss right there, in that spot above her sex that makes her shiver and pulse, and as he runs his tongue over her, the damp pull of her nightdress against her aching flesh is nearly enough to undo her.

She lets her thighs spread even wider, digging her heels into his back. This is wanton and wicked and not at all the sort of thing a lady should like, but then, being a lady has never brought her much joy, and certainly nothing as wonderful as this.

Outside, she can hear the soft shushing of snow against the casements, but in this room, there is nothing but her harsh breathing, the obscene, wet sounds of his mouth on her. 

When he drags her gown up and tastes her with no barrier between them, Sansa is not sure who groans louder. His lips and tongue glide over her sex, sucking, licking, and Sansa clutches the sheets, unsure how anyone can survive pleasure as dark and intense as this. 

When her release hits, it's abrupt and violent, and she hardly recognizes the guttural shout that spills from her lips. Her entire body curls up, as though every part of her is trying to hold on to him, onto this feeling she had not even known existed.

Jon's kisses grow softer, moving to her inner thighs, then her hips until he is resting his cheek on her stomach. 

Sansa strokes his hair, and tries to make sense of all of this. In the end, all she can say is, "You'll stay with me."

"Tonight?" he asks, voice slightly hoarse.

Sansa holds him tighter. "Every night."


	8. Behind Closed Doors

_No comment for this one, just my never-ending love for Jon and Sansa having Secret Sex._

 

"You're mad," Jon mumbles against her jaw. But he doesn't stop kissing her, doesn't stop pushing her dress up her hips.

Sansa laughs breathlessly, leaning back against his desk. "Am I now? And why is that?" Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright, her bodice puddled around her waist, and Jon wonders if there will ever be a time when her beauty doesn't leave him feeling as though he's been struck squarely in the chest. 

There are thousands of reasons why doing this- especially doing this here and now- are mad, but all Jon says is, "It's the middle of the day."

That laugh again, and honestly, Jon can never refuse her anything as it is, but when she laughs...gods, when she laughs, he wants to give her the world. Wants to give her all her heart desires as well as things she hasn't even _thought_ to want yet. 

Her fingers are on his laces, undoing them deftly. "What's so wrong about making love in the middle of the day?" she asks. Her hand closes around his cock, and Jon leans into her with a groan. "Do you only want me in the nighttime?" One auburn brow arches delicately, and Jon presses his mouth to it, tasting the salt on her skin.

She's teasing as she often does, but he is utterly earnest when he replies, "I want you all the time."

And he does. From the moment she returned to him, her hair still a dull, sparrow-brown, he had wanted her. Hated himself for it, and fought it, and did his damndest to stay away from her, but wanted her all the same. 

It amazes him that they have kept this secret, given how careless they often are. He's fucked her in the hot pools, crawled under her skirts in her solar, let her take him in her mouth in the godswood, and still, to all of Winterfell, they remain polite relations at most. Just yesterday, Arya asked him why it was that he and Sansa were still so cool to one another. He had thought of the previous evening, he and Sansa entwined on the floor in front of her fireplace, half-dressed and half-mad with want for one another, and wanted to laugh.

It cannot last, he tells himself, even as he kisses her like he's drowning, slipping his hand underneath her smallclothes. With a gasp that sets his blood alight. Sansa rolls her hips against his fingers, a movement that's both beautiful and obscene and makes him as hard as the oak beneath her. 

He parts her folds, thumb rubbing over the bud at the top of her cunt, and Sansa's head falls back, pink lips opening around a stuttering sigh. Jon can feel the smooth, cool ends of her hair on the hand he has braced on the desk. Underneath his other hand, she is hot and wet and, oh gods, he will never be able to touch her enough, never, never...

A knock at the door has them both freezing, breathing hard as Jon lifts his face from her neck, and Sansa cranes her head over her shoulder. 

"Jon?" Sam clears his throat. "That is, Lord Snow? May I speak with you?"

The curse Jon mutters as he lowers his forehead to Sansa's collarbone would have offended the Sansa he once knew. Now, she simply sighs, tugs at his hair, and murmurs, "Indeed."

"A moment, Sam," he calls. Sansa is already pushing him back so that she can slide off the desk, righting her gown as she does. Jon adjust his own clothing, and watches the wool slide back over her breasts with an ache in his gut. 

He aches in other places as well, something she notes with a little nod. "You may want to take the maester's conference sitting down," she whispers, a tiny smile dimpling her cheeks. 

"Wicked," he growls, pulling her against him one more time, kissing her fast and hard before taking his place at his desk and once again becoming Lord Snow of Winterfell.

Sansa takes a deep breath, and when she opens the door to Sam, there is no sign of the gorgeous, wanton thing that was seconds away from fucking Jon on his desk. There is only Lady Sansa, the beautiful but slightly cold creature that drifts through the halls of the castle as though she were not really of it. "Maester," she says with nod, and Sam, as usual, stammers and stutters and nearly trips on his robes getting out of her way.

Jon listens to her footsteps recede down the hallway and tries very hard not to resent Sam's intrusion.

Once Sansa is gone, Sam sighs. "I wish you could be kinder to her, Jon. A lady like that deserve kindness."

And Jon, whose mind is already spinning, already plotting the next time her can find her alone, press her against a wall, finish what they started, nods. "I shall try."


	9. Sigh No More, Ladies

Comment: _Sansa discovers Margaery with one of her handmaidens. It gives her...feelings._

At first, Sansa thinks the girl must be in pain. Her eyes are closed, and her mouth is pursed, a deep crease between her brows. And Margaery is pressed so close to to her, keeping her her haidmaid against the wall. It takes Sansa a moment to realize that Margaery's hand is actually _under the girl's skirt._ Gods, what could she be _doing_ to her?

The maid's head tips back, exposing the long white column of her throat, and Margaery's hand works faster. "Lovely," Sansa hears her croon, and then she kisses the other girl's throat. As she does, the maid's lips part, and she reaches one hand up to cover Magaery's. "My lady," she pants. "Oh, my lady."

Suddenly, Sansa's mouth is very dry. Oh. She is not hurting her at all. She is...they are...

Her pulse is fluttering, but not only in her throat and in her chest, but between her legs. She had no idea ladies did such things as this, and she is sure the urge to press her own hand between her legs and rub as Margaery is rubbing the handmaid is _very_ unladylike. 

The maid gasps. her mouth forming a perfect oh as she begins shaking. Only when the maid's shivers stop does Margaery pull her hand out from underneath the other girl's skirt, and then she...

Sansa presses one hand to her mouth as Margaery licks her fingers clean. The pulse between her legs is a throbbing ache now, and her smallclothes feel shamefully damp. Even the tips of her breasts ache, and she wants nothing more than to reach up and pull at her nipples. No, more than that. She wants _Margaery_ to do it. And then Margaery turns, sees her standing there in the shadows. Sansa knows she should leave, forget she ever saw this. But when Margaery holds out one slim white hand to her, all she can do is walk forward.


	10. Eyes Like Water

Comment: _What Renly loved most about Loras_

He knows most people would think he loves Loras for that lovely face or that hard, lithe body. And it's true, when they're wrapped together in his bed, in the furs of his tent, or once- dangerously, recklessly- in a darkened hallway of the Red Keep, Renly cannot keep his fingers out of that hair, cannot stop from tracing those cheekbones with trembling fingers, cannot stop _wanting_ this beautiful, beautiful boy.

But it's more than that. It's that when Loras looks at him, he doesn't see the younger brother of the king or the Lord of Storm's End. He simply sees Renly. And to see yourself, your true self, reflected back in Loras Tyrell's gaze...well, that's a powerful thing indeed.


	11. Like Honey From Your Lips

Comment: _Sansa shocks the hell out of Jon by talking dirty in the middle of sex._

Besides the odd breathy moan or occasional whisper of his name, Sansa doesn't make any noise when Jon fucks her- no, _makes love_ to her. He doesn't mind. The fact that he lets him do this to her at all is still so new, so shocking to him that she could be be completely silent, and he would never complain. But this night, her moans seem slightly louder, and even though her thighs are clasped to his ears, he could swear she is actually crying his name instead of murmuring it under her breath. Still, when she tugs at his hair and demands, "Fuck me, Jon," he is sure he's misheard her. 

He lifts his face from between her legs. "What?"

Her face is nearly as red as her hair as she gazes down her body at him, but her voice is clear and as haughty as the girl she once was. "I said I want you to fuck me."

The sound he makes is embarrassingly near a squeak, and her eyes narrow, lips lifting in a grin that is positively wicked. "On second thought, I'd rather you keep licking my cunt. You're so frightfully good at that."

Jon doesn't know if it's the wine she had at dinner or the fact that he's been away from her so long that has brought about this change, but he does know there is no longer any blood left in his head. He lowers his face to her and does as his lady commands.


	12. In The Morning Light

_Prompt:Robb/Roslin - After their first night as husband and wife, Robb takes his time making sure Roslin is well pleased._

 

He can't get the sound she made out of his mind.

It was a small thing, just a gasp, really. A tiny inhale as he slid fully inside of her, and as foolish as it had felt, he'd wanted to...apologize to her. But that would have made things awkward, he suspects, and this night is awkward enough as is. So he simply keeps moving until he's spent, shaking in her arms, gasping against her temple. 

Roslin doesn't shake or gasp, but that only occurs to him later, after she's slipped into sleep next to him. She's so much slighter than he'd thought she'd be-not to mention worlds prettier- and Robb feels something very like guilt steal over him as he remembers that tiny sound of pain. In the moonlight, he can just make out a few streaks of blood on the white sheets, and he knows he should have done more, should have tried to make sure she found just as much pleasure in their marriage bed as he had.

The next morning, he wakes before she does. The light outside is still gray, barely creeping inside their chamber, and it gives her skin the luster of a pearl. A strange sort of tenderness wells up in Robb, one he had not expected to feel. He twists a lock of Roslin's long brown hair around one finger, loving the cool smoothness of it against his hand.

He'd barely kissed her last night. Just a few hurried presses of lips and tongues, and then he'd been on her, wanting to get this over with, to lose himself in her body before he could remember Jeyne. 

She deserved more than that. Much more.

At first, he only ghosts his fingertips over the silken skin of her shoulder. As his touch slides down her arm, Roslin makes a faint sound in her sleep. It's hardly a moan, more a soft exhalation of inquiry, but it makes Robb hard in an instant, and suddenly, touching her arm is simply not enough.

Sliding his hand around, he cups one of Roslin's breasts, delighting in the way her nipple pebbles against his palm. 

Another sigh spills from her lips, and she rolls over slightly, moving closer to him. As she does, the sheet pulls away from her, and she is revealed to him in the cool, half-light of dawn. She is small, yes, but no less a woman for that, and Robb found his hand moving to the thatch of brown curls between her legs.

Roslin is warm there, already slightly damp, and Robb groans, dropping his lips to her temple. As he parts the folds of her sex, she stirs in his arms. "Robb?"

Her voice is thick with sleep and perhaps something more. 

"Shhhh," he hears himself say against her forehead. 

Her eyes flutter open, hazy and confused. "What are you-," she begins, and then the tip of his finger found a spot that had her gasping in nothing like pain.

"Oh," she breathes shakily, and Robb feels a rush of wetness against his fingertips. 

Keeping up a steady pressure, he circles that spot as she buries her hot face in his neck. "Oh, Robb," she whispers, her breath warm on his collarbone. "Oh, gods, oh, oh _ohhhhh_...."

"You're beautiful," he tells her, hardly recognizing his own voice. "My wife, you're so beautiful and your cunt is the softest, warmest thing I've ever touched."

Her hips surge at that, and she grips his wrist, trying to press him closer. That only enflames Robb all the more and he ducks his head, nudging his lips against hers. "So fucking wet," he tells her between kisses. "Do you like this? Do you like my hand on your cunt?"

Underneath him, Roslin shivers and lifts herself higher against him. "Robb," she pants, and he slides a finger inside of her.

She is searing hot and dripping against his fingers, and so tight his cock aches and pulses. But he's had his turn. Now he only wants Roslin coming apart around his hand.

"Come on, sweet girl," he urges, sliding a second finger inside of her as she whimpers, her head tossing on the pillow. "I want to feel you come for me." 

The sound she makes nearly undoes him. It's part whine and part sob and all pleasure, and Robb wants to spill every filthy word he knows, every fantasy he's ever had in her ear. 

Instead, he moves his hand against her faster, the slick sound of her on his fingers making him half-mad. "So beautiful," he says again, almost growling. "So tight and hot and wet. I can't wait to be inside of you again."

He feels her cunt pulse around his fingers, and with a high, thin cry, Roslin arches up off the bed, her hand still clamped around his wrist. And as she comes down, she shakes and gasps as much as he ever could have wanted. 

Drawing his hand back, Robb kisses her temple, her cheek, her neck. "Lovely girl," he whispers, and she hides her face against his shoulder. But Robb can feel her lips curving in a smile against his skin.

Perhaps, he thinks, drawing Roslin's face up to kiss him, marriage will not be the trap he had thought.


	13. Silver Among The Flames

_Prompt: Jon/Sansa, he likes when she wears her crown_.

It's a foolish impulse, one he will undoubtedly feel embarrassed about in the morning, but when Sansa stumbles back against the bed, driven there by his kisses, and reaches up to untangle the circlet of silver from her hair, Jon hears himself say, "Leave it."

Her hand falters on the crown, pupils blown with wine and desire. Gathering her skirts in his hands, Jon ducks his head and captures her earlobe between his teeth. "I've never made love to a queen before," he murmurs, and her laugh is breathless and a little shocked. 

It makes him want to shock her all the more, and he drops to his knees before her, pushing her gown up. When he finds her bare underneath, he gives a groan, fingers digging into her hips. 

"The dress," Sansa begins to explain, but Jon does not care why she chose to go without her smallclothes today. he is only deeply, profoundly grateful that she did.

He leans forward, pressing the softest of kisses between her legs, and Sansa gasps, both hands coming down to clutch his head. When he glances up her body, her head is tilted back, long hair spilling around her shoulders. The delicate crown that marks her as Queen in the North- that marks her as his glints in the firelight.

Foolish or not, the sight enflames him, makes him shoulder her thigh further apart, licking and sucking at her until Sansa's knees can no longer hold her and she sits heavily on the bed behind her. Jon follows, keeping his mouth on her until she is shaking and keening, heels digging into his back.

When he finally joins her on the bed, Sansa lays against the pillows, her crown slightly askew, but still encircling her fiery hair. She sees his gaze and reaches up to touch the metal, a dreamy smile on her face. "You take the knee for your queen most admirably, ser."

Jon laughs at that, but the sound dries in his throat as she sits up and begins unlacing her gown. Straddling his thighs, Sansa looks down at him, somehow regal and wanton all at once. "Shall I continue to leave it on?" she asks, arching an eyebrow.

And Jon swallows hard, reaching for her. "Gods, yes."


	14. Yours and Mine Alone

She has been married to Ned Stark for years, has shared his bed and borne him two children, and still, the first time he rolls over onto his back, settling her atop him, Catelyn finds herself flustered and embarrassed.

“Oh,” she says, her hands fluttering over the taut muscles of his stomach. He still moves within her, gripping her hips, his normally serious face flushed with exertion, his eyes surprisingly soft.

“I don’t know what to do,” she confesses in a whisper, and Ned smiles, his fingers flexing.

“‘Course you do,” he tells her gruffly, and a thrill shoots through her. She should feel disgraceful and wanton for how much she loves his voice when it sounds like that.

But Catelyn is beginning to learn that nothing that happens in her marriage bed is disgraceful.

And if some things are a bit wanton, she concedes as she shyly lets his hands guide her hips, perhaps that’s as it should be.


	15. Mine To Keep

It’s only natural that men flock to his wife. She is lovely beyond the telling of it, soft and sweet, but all steel underneath. Willas often thinks it’s the steel that attracts others, whether they realize it or not.

But understanding why men lust for Sansa does not mean that Willas enjoys watching hot eyes follow his bride around the room.

He tries so hard to be gentle with her, to touch her as delicately as a woman like Sansa deserves, but that night, his hands dig into her hips as she moves above him, and he knows that his kisses will leave bruises on the pale skin of her throat.

Only later, as he watches her sleep with a soft smile on her face, does it occur to Willas that perhaps Sansa does not mind his jealousy so much.


	16. Whispered Like a Secret

“You seem very distant for a man who once fucked me in a broom cupboard.”

Jon does not quite choke on his wine, but he comes very close. Coughing, he sets the cup down, looking around him. “Perhaps you could be louder, Lady Thenn. I’m not sure they heard you at the Wall.”

Alys only shrugs, coming around the table to stand beside his chair. “We keep a small household. There is no one up at this hour to overhear. So.” She steps closer then, and if Jon wanted, he could reach out and grasp the curve of her hip. But he does not want to.

He does not.

Still, he hears himself say, “And it was a pantry, not a broom cupboard.”

Alys laughs at that, and he remembers her laughing that day as well, while he moved inside of her and her fingers dug into his shoulders.

“Have you come all this way to argue semantics with me?” she asks now.

Jon looks up at her. She was never a beauty, Alys Karstark, but he likes the way her lips turn up when she smiles, likes the sparkle in her eyes. Liked how she had tasted on his tongue.

Pushing that thought away, he merely says, “I will not dishonor Sigorn in his own house, milady.”

Alys only smiles at that, and then before Jon has a chance to react, she slides into his lap, her soft weight a torment against him. “In that case, Lord Snow,” she murmurs in his ear, “I shall meet you in the stables at midnight.”


	17. Brighter Than the Moon

It should shame him, how much he wants her when she’s carrying his child.

But shame is not enough to stop him from pulling her into a secluded corner of the hallway, not enough to keep him from pressing kisses to the soft skin of her neck, and certainly not enough to make him regret snaking a hand beneath her skirts to touch her between her legs.

She is hot and wet even through her smallclothes, but still, Sansa turns her head away, blushing. “Jon, we shouldn’t.”

Concern for her is the only thing that could cool his ardor and immediately, Jon pulls back. Caging her face in his hands, he looks closely at her. “Are you unwell? Is the babe-,”

But Sansa only laughs and bats his hands away. “No, we’re both fine. I simply meant we shouldn’t do this here where anyone might stumble upon us.”

Relieved, Jon lets his hand drift back under her skirts. “Let them,” he replies, joy making his reckless. This beautiful girl is his wife, and in a few moons’ time, she will make him a father, the one thing he had always dreamed but never dared to hope for.


	18. At Your Command

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jon/Sansa- One of them is bossy in bed. The other doesn't particularly mind

_“Again.”_

It doesn’t matter how exhausted Jon is, how thoroughly wrung out he feels. When she gives commands in that haughty voice he remembers from childhood, he only ever wants to submit, to give her everything she wants.

_“There.”_

Jon presses his tongue firmly against her, right where she’s insisted, loving the way she shakes against him, the high thin cry she gives as her release breaks over her.

_“Don’t stop.”_

He won’t. He can never do enough for her, never bring her enough pleasure. And when she twists her hands in his hair, looks down at him with those blue eyes, pants his names and issues command after command, Jon revels in in each one.

Outside this room, people may call him a king, but in their bed, there is only one master. And Jon never wants that to change.


	19. Closer Than A Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jon/Sansa, Robb finds out and is Not Pleased

Robb paces the yard, his sword clutched in one hand, head spinning. But despite his anger, he finds he cannot swing a blade at the man he still thinks of as his brother, no matter Jon’s true parentage.

He can, however, swing a fist.

Robb’s blow takes Jon on the jaw, and even as Jon rocks back on his heels, a startled grunt of pain escaping his lips, he looks at Robb and nods solemnly. “I deserve that.”

“Our _sister_ ,” Robb spits in reply. _“Sansa.”_

“Your sister,” Jon answers, stubborn despite his contrite gaze. “Not mine.”

Robb only shakes his head, still stunned at the image of Jon and Sansa tangled together in the hot springs, Jon kissing her, Sansa clutching his shoulders.

Then another thought occurs to Robb, one that has him paling and lifting his head to stare at Jon. “That night,” he says. “In Wintertown.”

A fortnight or so back, he and Jon had found themselves in a tavern, drinking far more than was advisable. Talk had turned, as it often did with drunken men, to the women they’d had in their beds…

“You,” Robb says, pointing at Jon. “You did that…that _thing_ you talked about to _my sister?”_

Jon already has his hands up in apology- and defense- when Robb lunges at him.

**

Later, they sit by the fire, tending their wounds. Sansa had taken one look at their bleeding and bruised faces, declared them both, “Ridiculous,” and “Idiot boys,” before storming off to her chambers. But only moment later, one of her ladies had appeared with a basket of bandages and salves, so Robb thought Sansa was perhaps not too put out.

He hisses as he dabs at a gash near his eyebrow. Jon tries to settle back into his chair, but he winces as he does so, filling Robb with no small amount of satisfaction.

Finally, Robb hears himself say, “She’s seemed happier. These past few moons. I thought it was because she finally felt safe here, but I suppose…”

Jon only watches him warily, and Robb rolls his eyes. “She’s happy,” he says again. “You seem happy. I…I want you both to be happy.”

Jon’s lips quirk in something near a smile. “Is that your blessing?”

Robb grimaces as he rises to his feet. “Just remind me never to take you drinking again. There are certain things I never want to know.”


	20. For This Night And All The Nights To Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jon/Sansa, Wedding Night

When Sansa was a girl, she’d spent many a night thinking about her wedding. She had seen herself standing in the sept, draped in silks and velvet, jewels studding her hair. She had pictured being stripped of these trappings and laid gently in her new husband’s bed. She had envisioned soft kisses and sweet words and little past that, her girlish imagination only taking her so far.

But she does not wed Jon Snow in a sept, and she has not had silks or velvet or jewels since she left the Vale. Instead, they are married in front of a heart tree on the road north. The only witnesses are Jon’s ragged army- if such a small group of men can be called that- and they will spend their first night together not in a firelit chamber, but Jon’s weathered tent. There will be no one to strip Sansa’s gown from her but Jon himself, and he will not make love to her on fresh linen sheets, but on worn furs that have seen better days.

But there are soft kisses, albeit ones that grow less soft as more of her skin is revealed to him, as he bears her down to those worn furs that suddenly feel better to her than the finest bedding. And there are such sweet words, words he pants against her skin, words he whispers to the crook of her shoulder, words that are as shocking as they are lovely. Words that make her legs tremble and her breath come faster and her fingers dig into his back.

Outside, it’s cold and dark, sleet rattling against the walls of the tent, but inside, Sansa is so warm she feels that she might burst into flame.

And when he moves inside her, touches some perfect spot, Sansa turns her head to the side and gasps her pleasure into the furs, sure that she has become flame and fire, that he has made her a Targaryen in blood as well as in name.

Later, she lies against him and listens to his heartbeat thundering against her ear, watches shadows move across the ceiling of the tent, and presses herself even closer to Jon’s side. It is not the wedding night she had dreamed of.

It is far better.


	21. Thaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jon + Sansa (or Jon/Sansa, if you prefer): The first time they meet up again after the war, Jon is stunned when Sansa practically tackle-hugs him in her joy

He has no idea how to greet Sansa, whether she is the girl he called sister, a cousin, or merely the cold and distant Lady Hardying now. But when Jon goes to bow before her, he is shocked to hear her laugh, for her to stand from their- her- father’s seat and rush to him.

She is thinner and taller than he remembers, but her grip around him is strong enough to nearly have him rocking back on his heels, and his arms instinctively clasp around her waist.

“Jon,” she laughs and weeps all at once. “Oh, Jon.”

And for the first time since the Wall came down, the ice in his heart begins to crack.


	22. Fealty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sansa has always been distant from their oldest son knowing he was meant to be Daenerys' heir. Now that the time has come for the boy to be fostered at King's Landing. Jon reassures the boy of Sansa's love.

Jon runs his hand over Brandon’s hair and tries very hard to swallow against the sudden lump in his throat; twelve years has not been long enough with this sweet boy, and while Jon has always known his son’s destiny lay in the South, telling him good-bye is not an easy thing. 

It was not an easy thing for Sansa either if Brandon’s far away expression is anything to go by; he’d gone to his mother’s solar earlier, and while Jon had left them alone, he’d known the meeting would be hard on both of them. Brandon confirms that now, glancing up toward the keep and saying, “She didn’t even cry.”

Not caring of the men watching, Jon presses his son close to his chest and murmurs against his dark hair, “She cried the day you were born, my boy,” and as soon as he says the words, he can see Sansa, pale and sweaty, but lit up with all the love in the world as she cradled their child, tears pouring down her face. “And she cried the day the Queen claimed you for her own.”


	23. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their marriage was arranged, having never asked her after all these years Jon wonders at Sansa's honest feelings towards him.

What they have may not be worthy of songs, but Jon is grateful for it all the same; it is certainly more than he ever dared hope for, and there are times when Sansa slips her hand into the crook of his elbow, or catches his eye across the room and he thinks that they may actually be something very close to happy. Neither of them mention love, but then they are pragmatic creatures, he and his wife, and if Jon sometimes watches her and wonders if she longs for the nights he shares her bed the way he does, he would never be fool enough to actually ask.

And then one night his horse throws a shoe returning from Wintertown and Jon, who had meant to return home by evenfall, finds himself riding into the courtyard well after midnight, soaked to the skin from a surprise storm. But there is a greater surprise waiting for him when his wife rushes into the stables, her hands shaking as she clasps his face between them and says, “You’re home.” 

The relief in her voice washes over him, warming him down to his marrow, and as Jon takes her in his arms, he realizes he no longer has to wonder what her true feelings are.


	24. Sisterly Wisdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya reluctantly comes to Sansa for relationship advice, awkwardness ensues.

The years have changed Arya in many ways, but not, it seems when it comes to patience; when Sansa does not immediately give her an answer to her question, Arya goes to stand, waving her hands and muttering, “Never mind, then.”

Frowning, Sansa gestures for her sister to remain seated and says, “Oh, stop it, Arya. I am merely…thinking.”

The silence ticks by until Sansa lifts her head and begins, “Well, I’m not quite sure what to do about your conundrum with Gendry- it is Gendry, isn’t it?- but I do know the first time Jon and I made love-,”

Arya bolts from her seat at that, with another muttered, “I said never mind,” and Sansa sighs as she watches her go. They share much more now than they had as children, but apparently, there are certain things the two of them should never discuss.


	25. Fear Is For The Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sansa grows wary as her two sons get older and Jon reassures her.

“They’re men grown,” Sansa says, tucking herself closer to Jon, her cheek on his chest, his chin resting against the top of her head.

Underneath her, Jon gives a soft chuckle, his arm tightening around her shoulders. “Hardly, my love,” he replies, and while she knows that he’s right, that their sons have many years before the world will call them men, Sansa cannot forget how grown- and how very much like Robb- they both looked this afternoon, sparring in the yard.

As though he can sense her thoughts, Jon kisses her hair again and there is no laughter at all in his voice when he murmurs, “Winterfell is theirs, Sansa. They never need go South, I promise.”


	26. Forgiven, Forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon/Sansa have their first serious fight as a married couple. Sansa comes down with bad fever shortly after and Jon is regretful.

It was stupid, beyond foolish, and as Jon sits by Sansa’s bedside, holding her clammy hand in his, he wishes yet again he could take the entire thing back. They did not even have children yet, so why had they found themselves quarreling over whether or not their children would ever be fostered somewhere?

His presence is not welcomed in the sickroom, but there is no one who would dare tell him to leave, even though Sam assures him that Sansa will recover. But leaning forward now, pressing a kiss to her burning cheek, Jon murmurs, “I am sorry, and you were right, and I am the greatest of fools.”

Sansa’s eyes do not open, but the tiniest of smiles quirks her lips as she hoarsely whispers, “Indeed you are.”


	27. Of Dragons and Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon/Sansa- One of their kids inherit the Targ look. They have to reassure him/her that they belong to the Stark family

She’s beautiful, their Aryane, even with her face red and blotchy, streaked with tears. She is also a Targaryen through and through, pale hair streaming down her back, eyes the color of amethysts blinking up at Sansa and Jon. It’s never seemed to bother Aryane before, how little she resembles either of her parents, but that was before her brother was born with his auburn hair and grey eyes, a babe so clearly Tully and Stark. 

Sansa is usually the best at comforting their children when they’re hurt, but it’s Jon who scoops Aryane into his arms. “Little Dragon,” her nursemaids call the girl, but Jon murmurs, “wolf cub” against the white hair at her temple, and Sansa sees their daughter give a shaky smile.


	28. Stuck In The Middle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JonxSansa + Arya. There was never any question when they were growing up that he'd always take Arya's side when she fought with Sansa. But now that he's in love with Sansa, things are a lot more confusing for him when the two sisters fight.

Jon had never gotten between Arya and Sansa when they were younger; he had understood that sisters must be much like brothers, that what Sansa and Arya shared was akin to what he had with Robb, and that fights were as much a part of that bond as anything.

But things have changed now, and when he walks into a room to find the two of them facing off, Arya scowling, Sansa’s fists clenched in her skirts, he realizes he has no idea what to say or whose side to take; once, he had sided with Arya in all things, but that was…before.

But while he and Sansa may no longer be anything resembling siblings, Arya still knows his heart like any sister. Walking past him, she rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, for the love of the gods, don’t bother. It’s not as though everyone in this castle doesn’t know the two of you are fucking.”


	29. Of Princes and Bastards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: jon x sansa. he's initially suspicious and hostile because he thinks her changed attitude toward him is only because he's now a trueborn targaryen prince instead of a stark bastard.

Sansa has spent several moons imagining kissing Jon Snow- no, Jon Targaryen now- and when she finally gathers the courage to make her fantasies a reality, his reaction is nothing that she could have pictured. 

Hands tight on her shoulders, he pushes her away, his eyes hot, but his expression wary. “Why?” he asks, voice hoarse, and for a long moment, Sansa can only stare at him in confusion, unsure how to answer, yet understanding that Because I wanted to will not be a satisfactory answer.

She sees then what it is he fears; that she kisses him only because he is a prince now rather than a bastard, that she looks to him to save her.

But Sansa learned long ago that she did not require saving, and all she wants from Jon Targaryen- Jon Snow- is his mouth on hers, his familiar face close, and while she does not say that, she pours all of it into her next kiss.


	30. Mine, Yours, Ours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jon/Daenerys/Val- The Dragon Queen doesn't like to share...but neither does the Wildling Princess.

Perhaps it was always the only solution to their conundrum but Jon must admit that it had never occurred to him until both his wife and the woman who had once been his lover stood before him, challenge in their eyes. They were both beautiful, both deadly, and both more than he could ever resist. 

Still, as the three of them move together in the big bed he shares with the queen, Jon feels out of his depth, inept, enough so that Val gives a low, husky laugh and says, “Lord Snow, I remember you being far better at this.”

“Prince Jon,” Daenerys corrects, but she softens the words with a kiss to Val’s lips that has Jon clutching the sheets tighter, his heart pounding even harder than before.

Later, the three of them lay sweaty and sated in a heap, Jon’s head spinning, and Val reaches across his body to trail fingers along Dany’s ribs and purr, “And I thought I didn’t much care for sharing.”


	31. Your Hand In Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jon/Sansa, dancing lessons (because I enjoy torturing Jon, and lbr what would horrify him more?)

He feels bloody stupid. Worse than that, he feels nervous and awkward and terrified of disappointing her. But Sansa insists that a lord should be able to dance, and so Jon finds himself practicing alone with her in their chambers that evening, something all the more irritating given all the other things he’d like to be doing with her in these chambers.

But every time he gets a step right, she smiles, and when she realizes that her smiles make him try harder, she begins to give kisses as well. Still, Jon finds himself frustrated and at odds with his own feet until Sansa leans in and whispers, “Just think what I might do once you master this.”

At that, Jon is determined to become an expert at dancing by the time the night is out.


End file.
